Potty Training and Other Records for Posterity

Disclaimer: If you're eating or easily grossed out...you may want to just skip through your reader to a different posting.

Just thought I'd warn you up front.

Are you sure you want to go through with this? I will be discussing potty training issues.

I'm warning you, peeps...if you're squeamish, you do NOT want to read this one. Just sayin'

Here goes...

...Playdough turquoise is not a color you should ever see in diapers.

Can somebody please tell me how a scant cup of dry generic fruit loops cereal given out in baggies to tots watching a Veggie Tale's movie could produce bright, technicolor poo?

Freakiest. thing. ever.

It's horrible how much food coloring is in that cereal.

:: :: :: ::

Never allow your almost potty-trained 3 year old son to go potty by himself in the bathroom.

Especially when he doesn't understand the whole, "Call mama when you need me to help [wipe] you" like he should.

Because he will do his business and get off the pot all by himself (so proudly), except that in the process, he will smear his little behind all over the seat.

Then he will apparently sit on the edge of the bathtub contemplating what to do about the mess he just left on the toilet seat.

It is supposed that he will then determine that shutting the lid of the toilet seat will hide all evidence there, but that in doing so, he will turn around and notice what he left on the edge of the bathtub.

Knowing he is going to be in big trouble, he will then sit on the toilet lid for a few moments to figure out how to hide what was left on the tub, at which point he will ostensibly climb up on the counter and open the bathroom mirror where he remembered that there was some white Gol.d Bon.d Med.icated Pow.der that might hide the mess on the tub.

Only he will decide instead to fill his socks with it, because he saw big brother do this once for a mild case of athlete's foot and he is just sure he's missing out on some important rite of passage...something that will truly make him that big boy that he longs to be.

And he will do this all in that minute before you realize he's been quiet for too long.

:: :: :: ::

The next day, you will find need of his shoes, only he will not remember where he last had them on, and of course, neither will you.

You will go on an exhaustive search of the entire house trying to find them, and will only happen across them when you enter the main bathroom for the morning laundry, when you spot one of the pair beside the toilet of all places.

Further searching will finally yield the other shoe sitting immersed in an old diaper wipes container beneath the bathroom sink, fomenting in some unidentifiable and gaggingly stinky substance of unknown origins that you were fearful of flushing lest it lead to some septic problem of major proportions.

In the end it will be determined that it's just not worth it to try and salvage the shoes because, unlike your grandma's War era experience of having to wash her son's shoes off after he stepped in a railway spittoon, you are not rushing with four children to catch a train or worried about him being shoeless because of rationing.

And you breathe a prayer of thanks that you have the rescources available right then to buy a new pair of shoes.

And the ability to lock the doors on the bathrooms at all times to avoid such hassles in the future.

:: :: :: ::

Do not allow your 12 year old son to have more than one bean burrito in one sitting, especially without first taking a dose of Beano, because he will become just like Visa (everywhere you need to be)...stinking up the air you are trying to breathe, preferring the closed in and confined spaces like cars and elevators at places like IKEA.

Then he will catch you unaware, passing gas in the aisle at the grocery store and then disappear so that other shoppers believe that it was YOU who was the guilty party, and will laugh his head off about it when you tell him how rude and inconsiderate such behavior was.

:: :: :: ::

Your almost potty-trained toddler son will become obsessed with this new aspect of daily life (going potty), and looking forward to the day when he finally gets to wear his Thomas the Train underwear.

He will be so proud of himself for 'going' to the bathroom on the toilet all by himself.

However, he will eventually go to the bathroom all by himself and not tell you.

He will quietly go about his business, first pulling down, and later pulling up his own pull-up and pants.

He will even wash his hands.

You will congratulate him on being such a big boy.

And you won't know anything was amiss until he grows uncomfortable from not having, ahem, wiped himself, and will loudly voice his complaint in the only way he knows to explain while sitting at the Thanksgiving Supper at church, whining, "I have a waa-a-a-ash on my butt, mom".

Niiice.

The View From Here

I'm a night owl, but this early morning view from the kitchen table makes getting up early much easier to handle.

The Big Reveal...Before & After # 1

You may have noticed that I've been shamelessly avoiding the issue of before & afters around my house, filling up post after post with other things to buy myself some extra time because so much has been going on lately in the Frump household.

However, it's come down to two things: procrastination lack of energy and the biggie...lack of funds. (But then, who doesn't have this problem lately, what with the economy being what it is?)

In a few words...we're still not done with our projects. **hangs head in shame**

It's hard to pull the decor together when you're lacking a couple of key pieces you probably won't have the money for until after Christmas (namely area rugs and furniture), and frankly, a before & after just wouldn't be complete without all that.

And quite honestly, having all had that horrible cold that was going around, we were just to wiped out to do anything more for a few days there.

Actually all I have to show you is this:

Yes, I'm sorry...it's just my entry coat closet.

And this is the 'after'.

Isn't that lame?

(And when you were expecting so much more out of me, too.)

And you know what? The trim isn't yet painted, and the door frames still need to be touched up, so technically it's still not even done.

But it's all I've got.

However, do you see that lovely trim and laminate flooring? That's what we did through the whole living area and guest room.

Oh, I haven't shown you those either?

Woopsie. Heh, heh.

In our quest to decorate the house for Christmas in a mostly finished state, we've been working like sled dogs to get things done around here and are hoping we'll have lots more pictures to put up soon!

Stay tuned!

Announcing The Newest Member of Our Family

I've been a little bit busier than usual these past couple of weeks because we've been a little wrapped up with the newest addition to the Frump household.

He's nearly three months old and just as cute as can be.

We're back to infant formula and crying in the night, but it's worth it when you look into his big brown eyes and he points at things and looks so utterly adorable your heart just melts into a puddle.

Our adoption was a relatively trouble-free ordeal, the hardest part being when we accidentally saw his birth mother at the home where we went to meet him for the first time.

Just before she was forced out of the room where we were meeting, she looked at us as though to say, "Don't do it! Please don't take my baby from me!"

And I did feel very guilty.

For a few moments, anyway.

But one look into his sweet little face and I was instantly in love. Cold-hearted as it sounds, I didn't care what that young mother felt.

Can you see why?





What?! Did you think I was talking about wresting a baby out of some poor mom's arms?

Heaven's no!

Just making good on a promise to our boys, and also doing our friends a favor by taking one of their dogs newly weaned pups off their hands.

That infant formula I mentioned? Puppy chow. Specially formulated for puppies.

We were told initially that they were a Lab/Dalmation mix. When we saw the mom, however, we thought she didn't look Dalmation at all but more Pointer.

And we're pretty sure that this is the case because of this:







Yep, he points at just about everything. Cutest thing EVER.

He favors his pointer genes looks-wise, but I could never bring myself to bob his tail as they do for show Pointers.

Nope. We're encouraging him to embrace his Labrador heritage.

Well, that and because, honestly, I wouldn't want Judah to find it in the yard wherever it ended up falling off, pocketing it, and me later finding it in the laundry.

That whole snakes and snails and puppy dog tails thing was coined because of boys just. like. my Judah. (To be fair, Jericho did this too, except that he carted around a baggie with a fresh Rattlesnake tail that still rattled. I think it would be a pretty even tie between the grossness factor of both, especially finding them after they've been rehydrated in the washing machine)

Anyway, our pup is a Lab/Pointer mix. (What is that, anyway, a Labrointer? Pointrador?)

We're pretty sure he'll be a good hunting dog one day.

Which is what Jericho is hoping for after recently reading Where The Red Fern Grows.

After doing so, not only did he think he needed a Red Bones hound (or two), but he wanted to get hold of a fresh raccoon tail to tie to a string and train the pup how to hunt for coons.

I put my foot down about that, and dissuaded him by saying that I was pretty sure Labs and Pointers were bird dogs, and that maybe he could find a raven feather in the yard to train him to go after Heckle and Jekyll that keep landing back there and making so much racket.

And while we're on the topic, reading that same book also led to broad hints from Jericho that "Every young boy my age needs to have a big tree to cut down."

Because, you know, Billy from the story did it.

Because we happened to have a tree that we wanted to take down, we let him 'have at it' out in the front yard.





He managed to get that ginormous young tree down all by himself.

After his victory, feeling all manly, he made sounds about wanting to have his own rifle (Lord have mercy!) just like Billy in the story.

Living within the city limits, however, (not to mention having a toddler brother) we've talked him down to the more sensible BB gun. (Providing, of course, that he doesn't shoot his eye out. Or his brothers or his dogs. Or anyone else's.)

Due to that same story, Jericho also thought that getting a new puppy meant that it would get to sleep in his room with him, even though we've always kept our pets outside.

Because, you know, Billy did that, too.

So, though our pup isn't going to be an indoor dog, because we're complete suckers so thrilled that Jericho has begun to enjoy and look forward to reading (thanks to Where the Red Fern Grows) we decided to humor him.

For one night.



And, from the tub we kept him in, the puppy whined and cried for his mama all. night. long.

Finally, about 4 am, the crying stopped.

I went in to find out what finally caused it to quiet down, and found this:



Whether the pup got out of the tub on his own or was 'helped', we've not been able to conclusively determine.

How could we say "no" to such a request anyway when I found this the afternoon we brought the puppy home?



And did I tell you how adorable that little puppy is?



We've had a hard time coming up with a good name, though.

After putting this bandanna on him, I thought he should be called, "Banjo".



He kind of looks like a cow-dog, doesn't he?

As it stands, he's still going by D.O.G. Pronounced Dee-0h-Gee. Sounding kind of like Luigi.

Because Italian sounding names are perfect for Labrador Retriever/German Shorthaired Pointer's, don't you know.

In any case, I can hardly resist his puppy cuteness:





I often sneak him in at night to chew on my shoelaces while I'm writing, because when he gets tired, he rests his little head across the top of my foot.

And there just isn't anything quite so endearing as a puppy that falls asleep on your feet.

I think I may have to get new laces in my shoes, however, because he's teething like crazy. And always on things that we still needed. Like shoes, and paint rollers and brushes.



Although Raisin established herself as Alpha dog around the yard, D.O.G. has already comandeered her doghouse.



In spite of this, I'd say she's pretty tolerant of 'the kid'.

She's teaching him the ropes about being a good guard dog, and lets him tag along when she makes her routine inspections around the perimeter of the property.

She even gets her house back from time to time, making the pup sleep on the dog bed just outside the doghouse.



And on a couple of rare occasions, I've even spotted them snuggled together on the 'outside' dog bed.

So far, so good. I think we're all going to get along just fine.



Okay, so I guess we have our moments like any other family.

Hello, Poison Control? Yep. It's Us Frumps AGAIN

Uh, yeah, at the risk of sounding like the worst mother in the world, I recently had to call poison control...AGAIN.

Third time's a charm, whatever that means.

Yes, because we didn't have enough worries for Judah's life HERE and HERE, Judah decided to go and taste a sample sized bottle of daddy's cologne, and guzzle down an unknown quantity of Tom's of Maine Natural spearmint mouthwash the other day.

The kids I usually babysit were at their grandma's for the day because I was down with a humdinger of a cold.

Because mom's never get 'sick days', I'm putting dishes away in the kitchen when I realize things had gotten a little too quiet.

I called to my 3 year old, "Judah? What are you doing?"

"Nuffing" I hear him say kinda muffled from way down the hall.

It didn't sound particularly...I don't know, sincere?

I immediately went in search of him, and met Judah who rounded the corner to the kitchen just then reeking of cologne. Which I could smell strongly in spite of the whole coughing-stuffy nose thing.

"I smeow ha'some." His impish grin told me that it was clearly a diversionary tactic.

Normally, with the little dab daddy puts on him on Sunday mornings I would make over him telling him how handsome he was, but right then I was practically gagging from the overwhelming scent.

Naturally, this called for further investigation.

After seeing the spilled mini bottle of cologne on the Master bath counter, I sniffed Judah's breath. Had he poured it on, or tipped it back? I couldn't discern where the cologne smell was coming from exactly.

As a precaution, I checked a few other things in the vicinity that looked like he'd tampered with them...which was when I noticed the cap on the mouthwash was askew, my guess being that it was probably thrown on hastily the very moment I'd called to him. (I would SO love to know what went through his head as he carried out his mischief and heard me call to him.)

I scanned the mouthwash bottle, saw the warning in the usage directions that said "DO NOT SWALLOW".

Panicked, I didn't even stop to take pictures, but called Poison Control immediately.

The nice lady there asked a few questions.

"Did you smell his breath?"

"Yeb. But I hab a cold and can hardly smell anything. Except that wretched cologne, and I can't tell if it's on his neck or coming from his mouth.

She looked everything up and informed me he might have some digestive upset, but would be just fine (which, thank the Good Lord, has been their general response to most of the calls I've made over the years).

Then she asked me for my address.

And his name.

Apparently a computer check on our phone number indicated there had been, ahem, a few previous calls from our number, and it was protocol to find out which resident they were dealing with.

We're on "the list", now, I guess.

She was right though. No ill-effects.

I just had to soak Judah in the tub for a while to get that horrid cologne off of him enough to have him around me.

And wouldn't you know, not 10 minutes out of that bath, he climbed some boxes I'd stacked temporarily in his bedroom (while rearranging my bedroom furniture), and got into the top drawer of the storage unit in his bedroom and got out the diaper ointment.

And promptly smeared it all over his bedroom door.

The fun just never ends around here.

I think it may be time to renegotiate my contract to include a few sick days that don't include taking care of kids.

Tricks and Treats (A Belated Halloween Posting)

Some days, our youngest son is full of vim and vinegar.

In this respect, he is like no other kid I've ever babysat or known in my lifetime.

Judah is definitely in a class all his own.

He's a very sweet and loving and even obedient boy as a general rule, but every so often he'll have a couple of days so chock-full of mischief that I can't help but to wonder where it all comes from.

Judah's last bender was, I'm quite sure, due in large part to his veins pulsing with sugar from all the goodies he'd consumed in those couple of days surrounding Halloween.

It seemed to begin the day of our big 'fall festival' event at Awana a couple of nights before Halloween.

Now Judah loves Awana. That in itself would have been enough of a highlight of his week, but when he learned we were all going to be dressing up cowboy style that night, he was positively giddy.

Looking back, I realize my first mistake was that I probably should have been more watchful over the piles of candy I was filling goodie bags with for my Awana class.

Which, incidentally, gave him not only the sugar rush but also plenty of idle time on his hands to devise and carry out his plans.

His first 'Trick' was one that puzzles me immensely.



Because of all the influences in our sons life, KISS is not one of them.

And yet, this is the second time this kid has attempted to emulate Gene Simmons.

Naturally, when a mom sees her very guilty-looking son with her eye-makeup on his eyes, she knows exactly where to go to begin her investigation.



Someone had a heyday with mom's makeup case.

What really struck fear in my heart, however, was what I found while cleaning up that mess.

Matches. Lord have mercy.

At Judah's age (3 years old), my own father was playing with matches and managed to burn his grandparents living room to the ground.

(Note to self: Put all matches and flammables under lock and key.)

Oy.

Later, I set the kids to coloring at the table so I could get some baking done. Brand new jumbo sized crayons.

When I went to put them away, I found the paper peeled off the blue crayon, and a portion of the crayon remaining which suggested that it was not broken, but had, in fact, been bitten off.

Further inspection found the same fate had occurred to the tips of the other crayons in the box, and Judah nowhere to be found.

I did find him in his room. Looking really, really guilty. That blank, "Are you talking about the crayon incident? Because I didn't touch the crayons" kind of look.

"What did you do?"

"Nuffing," he lied.

"Let me see your teeth."



Oh, sure, kid...everyone's teeth have speckles of blue, purple and green wax all over their teeth. Perfectly normal. Nuffing at all out of the ordinary here! (Thank God Crayola had the foresight to make non-toxic crayons.)

And did I mention that all of this came on the heels of another recent 'disaster' involving mom's pedicure creme? He'd even gone to the trouble of wrapping up the towel to hide the cup or so of creme that he'd squeezed from the bottle. Some had also been smeared into the bath mat.



Which begs the question: Why is it always my stuff that he gets into and never his dad's?

Oh, but he wasn't through.

Later, in the short window of time between when the girls I babysit going home and the time we had to leave for Awana, there was the whole 'let's slam the refrigerator door hard while the produce drawer (where we also keep cheese sticks) is still pulled out' trick.

Because moms just love having their brand new refrigerator drawer cracked (even if it still works) only a couple of weeks after the ice dispenser incident, which for unknown reasons has rendered our ice dispenser useless about 66% of the time.

(I worry that he plans to singlehandedly destroy our brand new refrigerator before we've even had it a full month. Where have we gone wrong, I ask you?)

We left for our Awana event in a rush, because what other way is there to leave when you've babysat all day, filled treat bags, made and frosted 2 dozen cupcakes and had to deal with such disasters?

The boys did make cute cowboys, though.



Unbelievably, when I picked Judah up from his class that night, his teachers assured me that he'd been an angel. They'd also given him a carameled apple, which I promptly confiscated, not needing him to have any. more. sugar. in his system.

Somehow, though, Judah found that apple a couple of days later and brought it to daddy with big pleading eyes. Daddy, not knowing I'd kept it up out of his reach for a reason, sliced it and let him have at it.

It shouldn't have surprised me then, when later that night Jeff took Judah on a quick trip to the grocery store to pick up a few things we needed, and while he was looking over the fruit Jeff heard a young couple chatting nearby. The man suddenly stopped to say, "Excuse me, Sir...your son!"

Jeff turned around and had to look up to find Judah.

Yes, up.

Judah had, in that split second while Jeff was bagging up the grapes, managed to scale a nearby tiered produce display of exotic fruits.

There was our smiling son, standing atop the display bouncing slightly, his hands held aloft in victory stance...so very proud of himself for having accomplished such a feat.

Yes, our little darling is one of those boys that does what every other kid thinks of doing but knows better than to actually do.

When Judah sees something that looks fun to climb, he climbs it, heedless of any consequences or possible dangers, completely neglecting the good behavior we've tried so hard to instill in him.

His chagrined father reached up and removed him from his perch, to the laughter of the young couple. "Boy, you can't turn your back on that kid for a second, can you?!"

And they were exactly right. This feat would be repeated not one week later on the shelves in the history section in Barnes & Noble.

Perhaps we should get this boy a swing set with some monkey bars a rock climbing wall to expend some of his energy and prowess on, because riding tricycles, throwing rocks on the lawn, destroying rose bushes and climbing fences around our property apparently aren't enough of a challenge for him.

(Note to self: Teach him to never climb the fences Erect a high cinderblock wall around the perimeter of the property.)

I just don't want to look out the kitchen window one day and find him parachuting off the roof with an umbrella like my mom did as a child.

(Note to self: make sure ladders are safely tucked away behind boxes and stuff in the garage.)

Or worse yet, along with his brother "flying" a soapbox derby style aeroplane out the attic window and down the sharply peaked roof of their home in Germany (like my grandma's sons-my uncles-did during their years overseas in Germany shortly after WWII). She looked up just in time to see them 'fly', no doubt muttering one of her, "God help us" emergency prayers as she ran towards them with leaden feet...and watched as they landed miraculously on the clotheslines which bowed to the ground, depositing them safely to terra firma without a scratch to be found, though I'm sure a few years were scared off my grandma's life. I never did ask, but I'm thinking after checking them over thoroughly, she probably marched all the way up the stairs to the attic and nailed that particular window shut.

(Note to self: Hide all hammers, wood and power tools, and dissuade every attempt at making 'cars' or anything else out of furniture dollies).

Oh, but Judah sure was a cute little guy in his "Twick-oh-Tweet" costume, again as a cowboy.



Big Brother didn't do a half-bad job of coming up with an original costume of his own with most of our stuff still packed up.

A quick raid of the coat closet, and he went as a sniper.



Judah had been trick-or-treating with in years past, but was never really old enough to 'get' the whole tradition.

This time, however, taking his cues from big brother, his excitement was palpable. He couldn't talk enough about "canny", and just like big brother, loves to dress up in costumes.

We were fortunate, as we had only two snafus while out trick-or-treating.

The first was his ill-mannered "Gimme some canny" comment to the first home we visited.

Uh, yeah. Apparently we'd neglected to instruct him on the proper Trick-or-Treat ettiquite before reaching for her doorbell. (I console myself with the thought that at least he had the decency to say "thank you" for the candy, and that the lady was one of those that can't resist the charm of a cowboy.)

Then there was the poor unsuspecting man who had just barely opened his door, when Judah yelled "Twick-oh-Tweet" with unbridled enthusiasm, causing the man's big old tom cat to jump up in fright and run as far into the depths of the house that he could go to get away from such intrusion.

And Judah decided to give chase (because that's what you're supposed to do with big Tom cats that look just like your Grandma's cat).

Much to the man's stupeification and mom and dad's chagrin.

So. very. awkward. Do you run in after him? Allow the man to pick him up and set him outside? Or just wait and hope he reappears in a reasonable amount of time?

We did the latter, and nabbed him when the cat galloped past the door with Judah in hot pursuit.
I know the kids enjoyed their trick-or-treating, but I must admit I wasn't at all disappointed when it began to rain, giving us a good reason to take the boys home.

Besides, inspecting the kids candy bags for our favorite candy bars razor blades, LSD tatoos, tainted gold coin choclates and other possible dangers is something the Frump household takes very seriously, and we felt the need to take care of that as soon as possible.

If You Buy Your Wife A House...

By Becky Frump Mamaroff

If you buy your wife a house,

she’s going to want to renovate it.

Unwittingly, you will offer to do whatever you can to help.

When she’s finished with her plans, she’ll have lists of tasks for you to do.

Lots of tasks.

Lots and lots and lots of tasks.

And when you finish those, she’ll ask you to do yet one more thing.

You’ll have to go to Lowe’s to get more paint.

She’ll want to go with you.

On the way there, she’ll remember how she wanted to decorate the guest bedroom, and will decide the room needs a ceiling fan.

While she’s in the fan department, she’ll decide that all the bedrooms need matching fans.

And when you arrive back at the house, she’ll ask your ‘handy’ friend Steve to install them all.

And then she’ll decide that all the builder’s standard gold light fixtures have got to go, and so she’ll pick out new brushed nickel light fixtures for around the house.

Which she’ll ask her husband to install, because his ‘handy’ friend Steve wisely taught him how to install them (the whole ‘teach a man to fish, he’ll eat for a lifetime’ principle).

While you’re installing the over-the-kitchen sink light, your wife will decide that the cabinets on either side need a little more…substance.

And so she’ll ask for an oak plank.

Which will require a couple unearthing the power tools from the stacks of boxes in the garage to saw, rout and drill holes.

And when she’s done with staining that plank to match the cabinets, she’ll ask you to install it.

But it can’t be done until the window treatments are up.

Instead, she'll ask you to help her trim the sliding doors with matching molding.

She will then ask you to help her hang the drapery rod.

And then the drapes.

And you will rue the day you ever bought that house, because the list of projects will seem unending, and you can't even sit on your sofas in the living room, because you can't find them behind the stacks of boxes of stuff that were moved out of the guest room to get it ready to be painted.

You will notice that one project always depends on another.

And every single project entails a trip to Lowe’s for some more hardware or other supplies.

Which she’ll ask you to ‘pick up’ on your way home from work.

When you bring it home, she’ll remember there was one other thing she needed, and will make a trip there herself while you paint the guest room.

The smell of the paint that evening will be overwhelmingly strong, and will require the bottom of the door to the room to be sealed off and all the bedroom doors at the other end of the house shut for the night if the occupants are to get any sleep at all without mom flipping out about her infuriating asthmatic condition.

And then she will want to get the trim in that room cut and installed right away because the room doubles as her studio, and she will need to begin working in there as soon as it airs out if she’s to ever get her Christmas projects underway.

Which will require borrowing an air compressor from one friend, and a nail gun from another…and another trip to Lowe’s for the proper length of nails for the overly thick trim.

And after it’s installed, she’ll want it painted right away, but that will have to wait because you don't want to tape off fresh paint.

So she will turn her attention to installing the trim throughout the living area (so that all the trim painting can be done in the same window of time while she camps out at your mom's house) but when she goes to make the measurements for the cuts, she’ll realize that the kitchen cabinet project must be finished first.

Which requires more sawing, staining and installing.

Which will require another trip to Lowe’s, whereby she will ask for even more money.

And chances are…if you give her the money, she’ll find yet another project for you to do.

You’ve been a real trouper, Jeff. Without you, we would have no beautiful new house and my Repressed Inner Decorator dreams would never have come true.

YOU DA MAN!

Love, your slightly crazed but totally jazzed-about-her-new-home wife.